


Rose-lipt

by vissy



Category: Beauty and the Beast (TV)
Genre: F/M, Vincent/Catherine - Freeform, classic, episode expansion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-12-21
Updated: 1999-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:03:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vissy/pseuds/vissy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An AU episode expansion of 2.18 'A Kingdom By The Sea'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rose-lipt

**Author's Note:**

> Written December, 1999.

Vincent dropped soundlessly into a shadowy corner of Catherine's balcony, a  
move so practised that he could do it in his sleep. The evening air was  
clear and fresh, and there were roses in Catherine's cheeks despite the snug  
blue jumper she wore. Oblivious to his presence, she was kneeling over a new  
pot plant; her absorption in her task seemed to spill over into him, and he  
stood there, silently watching her. Her hair was tied back into a casual  
ponytail, giving him an uninterrupted view of her face; it held an endearing  
mixture of pleasure and anxiety as she fussed over her new acquisition.

To see her fingers - kneading the rich soil, stroking the leaves, brushing  
over the delicate, unopened rosebuds - was to want those hands on _him_. The  
unbidden thought gave his features a dreamy, unfocussed vulnerability, and  
was not easily suppressed. It occurred to him that he should announce his  
presence or leave immediately; to stand about gaping at her in this useless  
fashion did him no good at all.

As he watched, she wielded a pair of secaturs with the tentative touch of  
the occasional gardener. The small rosebush fought back, piercing her left  
finger with a thorn; Vincent felt a pang in his own finger, and although he  
had long accustomed himself to this bone-deep knowledge of her, it still  
astonished him.

"Ow, dammit!" she cried, and he came forward, drawn as always by her  
distress.

"Catherine, are you hurt?" At the sound of his voice, she looked up with  
surprise, her finger already forgotten.

"How long have you been...?"

"Only a moment," he answered, feeling abashed about his silence earlier. She  
looked so pleased to see him. "You were so absorbed in your work. I didn't  
want to intrude."

She chuckled at this, shaking her head a little. "Must've appeared pretty  
ridiculous."

"No. You looked..." Vincent thought for a moment as he approached her,  
before continuing, "...determined."

As he crouched down beside her, he eyed the plant with interest, feeling her  
pleasure in it. "The terrace gets so much morning sun," she said. "I thought  
a rosebush might do well here."

"Roses?" he mused, thinking of the flower's unspoken language of poetry,  
passion...love.

"The man at the nursery said this is a very special bush...if I don't kill  
it with my gardening," she said ruefully. With a quick glance at her  
bleeding finger, she seemed to acknowledge that the rose might well kill her  
first.

Vincent's gaze was drawn to her finger as well, the scent of her blood  
filling his hypersensitive nostrils. "Catherine...your hand..."

Overtaken by instinct, he took her bleeding finger between his lips, drawing  
it into his mouth to absorb the coppery warmth on his tongue. To taste of  
her this way was to magnify their bond a thousandfold. Never had he felt so  
intimately connected to her as at this moment, when he was soaking up her  
very essence on the raspy roughness of his tongue. His teeth clamped  
helplessly, hungrily on her finger - not enough pressure to hurt her, but  
more than enough to hold her there before him. On his haunches, he crouched  
over her hand as - hidden behind the golden curtain fall of his mane - he  
savoured the sensation for what seemed like a remarkably long time...though  
it was in fact no more than a moment.

Looking up at last, he met Catherine's gaze. Her eyes were wide with  
awareness, and Vincent felt the grip of panic. He was all too aware that  
he'd crossed an unspoken boundary, and was desperately uncertain of her  
reaction to his incursion. Their bond - now pulsing with frenetic energy -  
gave little hint of her underlying emotional state, even had he been calm  
enough to read her properly. His head was filled with the pounding of his  
own accelerated heartbeat...and her heartbeat as well.

Catherine looked...mystified...even hypnotised...by an unexpected and most  
extraordinary development. Her expression disturbed him deeply. He saw  
bewilderment and uneasiness, and interpreted them as rejection. The desire -  
a mirror image of the need in his own eyes, had he but known it - was  
something he could barely recognise, much less acknowledge.

His eyes darted anxiously from side to side under the steadying pressure of  
her own gaze; as she gathered her composure - and her determination - his  
own seemed to be breaking apart. His rational self urged him to leave her  
and pretend that these minutes past - so utterly telling - had been a  
figment of his aching, restless dreams. Wished the boundary uncrossed, the  
moment undone...for where could it lead but to frustration and despair? She  
could not possibly accept _him_...crouched over her like some beast of prey,  
luxuriating in the taste and scent of her blood, and knowing only that he  
wanted, needed...more.

Always more.

At least his dreams, restless though they may be, were safe. Safe for  
Catherine, and sanctuary for him. So he would pretend this was just another  
dream, from which he would awaken soon, hard and wanting of her love, but  
safe.

Yet his body still clung stubbornly to her lofty balcony, and the dream went  
on as dreams do, with its own sense of reality - vivid yet hazy, and quite  
pregnant with significance. Like a flash, Catherine grasped his chin with  
her right hand, compelling him to acknowledge the truth of the unspoken  
moment. His bottom lip, swollen and glistening from its caress of her  
bleeding flesh, slackened now, trembling infinitesimally as Vincent realised  
that in this Catherine was stronger than he, and would face this head on  
whether he was ready or not. He had, almost unawares, initiated something  
powerful here tonight, and the growing resolve in her eyes told him that she  
would force him from dreams into the waking world.

A world where he could hold her...perhaps hurt her...

"No," he muttered, his voice husky and harsh. He was unwilling to remove  
himself from her grasp, but hoped desperately that she would release him of  
her own accord...make the decision for them both. Her fingers did not fall,  
however; if anything, they gripped his jaw tighter. Through the pulsing  
chaos that had infused their bond, Vincent felt her unspoken plea - _stay_ -  
and was lost.

The air between them was thick with almost unbearable tension. Responding,  
perhaps, to the anxiety in his expression, Catherine smiled a little, a  
gleam entering her eyes. "Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" she asked,  
cocking an eyebrow.

Vincent swallowed. His tension was unwavering, but he was not unappreciative  
of her attempt to ease it. "If we're to reenact a certain balcony scene, I  
believe that should be my line."

"Then say it, Vincent. Say it."

Vincent stared at her, his breaths drawn sharp and shallow as he tried to  
feed his fevered brain enough oxygen to think straight. An honourable task,  
but ultimately useless as he soon discovered; watching a delicate pink flush  
cross her features, Vincent could feel his own face overheating as rational  
thought dissolved and instinct took over.

His bottom lip still shook uncontrollably, and Catherine's wide eyes hooded  
as she watched it, transfixed. _She knows now,_ he thought. _She knows how much  
I need to kiss her...taste her. Such all-consuming hunger. Why doesn't she  
run? How does she find the courage to stay, when I have so little?_

He spoke finally, his words hesitant, yet utterly heartfelt. "Wilt  
thou...leave me..." Catherine's eyes narrowed alarmingly as he paused. Her  
fingernails pressed into his jaw, and he gulped before continuing, "...so  
unsatisfied?"

The smile he loved so dearly bloomed across her face, telling him without  
words that he had asked the right question...and already had his answer. Her  
determined grip on his jaw shifted now, her index finger stroking his  
bristled chin tenderly and her thumb soothing his yearning mouth. "Never,  
Vincent," she murmured, before leaning closer to touch her lips to his.  
"Never," she repeated with quiet emphasis, and the word seemed to fill his  
mouth and sink deep into his lungs as he breathed her in.

It was...unspeakable bliss...to have her so close. So close that he could  
feel the gentle flutter of her eyelashes against his cheek as her eyes  
closed. So close that the heat of her skin against his threatened to inflame  
them both.

So close...

Vincent thrust himself away from her, unusually graceless as he lost his  
crouched balance. Arms outstretched to brace himself, his right hand met the  
secaturs that Catherine had dropped earlier. One blade cut into his thumb,  
and he fell back against the balcony wall with a soft growl of discomfort -  
more at having torn himself from Catherine than from the small gash.

Slumped on the ground, Vincent glanced up to see his reflection in  
Catherine's glass balcony doors...and loathed what he saw. The reminder of  
what he was...and all that he was not...cut Vincent more sharply than the  
keenest blade. His head drooped wearily to rest on his raised knees. It was  
too hard to pretend that this was all a dream, not with pain slicing through  
him so harshly that he couldn't begin to imagine where his ended and  
Catherine's began.

A soft sound made his ears prick, and he turned his head to find Catherine  
wiping a stray tear from her cheek...the same cheek he'd been nestled  
against a moment ago. He had pulled away so as not to hurt her, yet  
nonetheless his retreat caused her pain - her face bore the proof. What was  
he to do? This impasse was destroying them both, and he saw no way around  
it. They had long since passed the point where they might have parted  
forever. Had there ever even been such a point? She had entrenched herself  
so irrevocably in his heart - in his very soul - from the moment he had  
first caught the scent of her life's blood seeping uselessly into the earth.  
Then and there he had resolved to keep death from her at any cost...even of  
his mortal soul. And surely his soul was in peril, for in keeping her safe  
he brought death to others. So many...maimed and killed for her sake, and  
he would do it all again. Not gladly - never gladly - but without question.  
There had never been any question in his mind that harm must not be allowed  
to touch her.

But if Catherine was to be protected, then should he stay away? He was the  
very embodiment of his own fears for her. These hands - and he looked at  
them now, so inhumanly strong, so fiercely armoured - these hands could do  
more damage to her in an unguarded moment than six inches of steel had  
accomplished two years ago. A man - and man he had been, though cold and  
cruel and utterly without mercy - had been in control of that knife. Vincent  
was warm and loving, but he knew what it was to be without mercy. Part of  
him was not a man - even Father had admitted as much - and Vincent feared  
that this part of him had precious little control of his own deadly hands.

And that side of him wanted Catherine too, loved her beyond reason. Could it  
be trusted? It shed blood so unthinkingly...so unstintingly. What if it  
touched her with the same heedlessness? Catherine would call such fears  
pointless - and indeed, there seemed little point in turning violence  
against the one person he'd sworn to protect - yet that animal side of him  
was so simple, and so completely beyond comprehension.

So much a part of him...

No use pretending there was a schism within him, either. He might like to  
think that the beast within was somehow separate..._other_... but it resided  
deep in his marrow and surged thick and fast through his veins when called  
upon. It wasn't some entity he could argue with or battle. It wasn't  
something to be used and then shunted aside for the sake of expedience.

It was _him_.

Could he, _Vincent_, be trusted?

Catherine evidently thought so. Her faith in him seemed boundless. How else  
could she bear with him after all that she had witnessed? She had seen the  
almost insane bloodlust that overtook him whenever her life was threatened.  
The horrified shrieks of his victims as their flesh was torn asunder -  
straight through to the bone, and beyond - and that puzzled expression that  
came over them, each and every one, as they grasped their own entrails.  
These were the sights and sounds that stalked Vincent's dreams, as surely  
they must haunt Catherine. If _he_ was the perpetrator of such frenzied acts,  
then she was the inspiration. Yet she abided with him still. No amount of  
carnage seemed to shake her faith.

No amount of shed blood...

His eyes moved from the blood on his hand to the tears on Catherine's face;  
it seemed an apt symbolic indictment of their relationship. But if Catherine  
believed in their love, its _rightness_, then shouldn't he believe in her? She  
had strength - he had known that from the beginning, before she had even  
begun to feel it herself. When she saw him for the first time, instinct had  
prompted her to fight, not run, and though her reaction had given him pain,  
it had also made him proud; even at her lowest ebb, she had been able to  
draw on deep, untapped stores of courage. Courage that had seen her through  
any number of atrocities since she had begun testing the limits of her new  
life.

Their bond had from the first become an imperative in his life, and the  
impulse to be with Catherine, to surround her, was growing stronger with  
each day. Much of this had to with the advancement of Catherine's own powers  
of empathy. She had always been a person of great affinity for the feelings  
of those around her - countless times he had seen people drawn into her  
tender, soothing focus - but proximity with him, with his hypersensitive  
perception, seemed to ever heighten her own empathic intensity. To be the  
subject of her compelling attention was more than he could resist. He could  
no longer even try. No longer wanted to.

Time seemed curiously suspended, marked only by the fall of Catherine's  
tears. Vincent watched the salt water trace her soft cheeks and fall to her  
cupped, waiting hands. A powerful longing to taste those tears - to savour  
her again - washed over him, and he felt for the first time that it was  
right to feel such urges...and right to act upon them, too. She looked up at  
him then, caught perhaps by the changing current of his thoughts, or by the  
vivid mental image of his mouth on her flesh as it had been earlier to such  
devastating effect. She was becoming so attuned to his every impulse that it  
frightened him sometimes, but it gave him great satisfaction as well. The  
intimacy was beautiful, almost unbearably so; he had been a slave to it  
himself for so long now, and it was both joy and terror to watch Catherine  
become as entangled as he himself was. Could she still love him once she  
learnt all his secrets?

Evidently he would find out sooner or later, for Catherine felt no  
inclination to stem the tide of their intimacy - he could sense her  
determination. Even now she crept closer to him, in almost unconscious  
response to his unspoken call, until she knelt before him, cupped hands held  
out towards him. Earlier, he had taken her by surprise when he drew her  
bleeding finger into his mouth. Now...now she offered herself freely. Sweet  
compliance to his fractured, fraught desires, their bond telling him quite  
plainly that she shared his thirst.

His head dropped to her outstretched hands, his lips searching eagerly for  
the salty droplets before they dried. Her tears - the physical manifestation  
of her charged emotions - tasted as intoxicating as her blood. Nuzzling her  
hands, he breathed in her fresh, loamy scent - so unusual for his Catherine,  
who was not much given to grubbing in the dirt. He was close enough to see  
every intricate pattern on her palms, the loops and whorls at her  
fingertips, the three endearing freckles on her left pinkie. His avid mouth  
sought the small wound made by the rose thorn, but it was already healing,  
leaving only the memory of her blood for his palate to dwell on.

As he hunched over her, she crept ever closer, easing his legs apart before  
curling into the curve of his body. With her back tucked snugly against his  
torso, she relaxed into the cushioning embrace, quivering as he wrapped his  
arms about her with possessive fervour. His left hand pressed into the  
softness of her belly, drawn helplessly by its yielding appeal; he was  
certain that she could feel the imprint of his claws even through the woolly  
protection of her pullover, yet she didn't protest, and he felt incapable of  
loosing his hold. His right arm crossed beneath the delicate weight of her  
breasts, and she arched into his touch trustingly, increasing their contact  
further.

Vincent's face nestled into the crook of her neck, his uneven breathing  
ruffling the soft tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail. Her  
woollen sweater was soft against his left cheek, but the skin against his  
right was softer still - lush velvet that cushioned his bristles and coaxed  
his ardent lips. Could there be any greater happiness than this? he  
wondered. The rapture of this embrace was almost beyond his comprehension.

A restless movement from Catherine snared his attention, and he followed the  
direction of her gaze to where his bleeding thumb rested between her  
breasts. He was daunted suddenly by the unheard-of intimacy - terrified that  
he had gone too far - but he felt no hint of disturbance in their bond.  
Instead he sensed in her a longing to taste him, just as he had tasted her.  
She took his hand in hers, drawing the reluctant fingers from the shadow of  
her breasts, and brought his thumb to her waiting lips. Instead of taking  
him into her mouth though, she stroked his thumb slowly along her lush  
bottom lip, painting it blood-red, whilst the tip of his razor-sharp  
thumbnail traced a path over the delicate bow of her upper lip.

Vincent shuddered in a state of anxious entrancement. Her fingers were  
interlaced with his own, and he struggled to keep from clenching his fist.  
As if sensing his tenuous control, she let their joined hands fall as her  
head dropped back against his shoulder. His gaze was drawn helplessly to her  
blood-stained mouth, which creased into a breathtaking smile beneath his  
regard. She tilted her head to face him more squarely and freed her hand to  
caress his bristled cheek, gently coaxing his mouth to meet hers.

Vincent needed little persuasion; he was utterly beguiled, so many untried  
senses and desires coming to life. All too susceptible to the enticement of  
her grey-green gaze, he coiled his neck about hers to claim her mouth. His  
kiss was slow and exploratory, a feather-touch that became increasingly  
urgent as he tasted his blood on her...in her. Her lips parted willingly,  
joyously, for his delectation, and he stroked their copper-scented softness  
with his questing, eager tongue. All the while, a low groan issued from deep  
within him to match her jagged panting; both of them were desperate for  
breath, yet loath to separate for even a moment.

Mouths melding in a series of hot, shivery kisses, they shared his blood  
between them until hardly a trace remained; then they shared the salty  
sweetness that remained. His tongue rasped against hers, the roughness a  
tantalising reminder of how different they were...and how compatible they  
might prove. Never before had he had the freedom to satisfy such cravings as  
these, but he would not be deterred by inexperience and felt certain, on  
some soul-deep level, that he was giving her pleasure. Her gasping, restless  
mouth could not release him long enough to smile or speak of her happiness,  
yet a dreamy glow suffused their bond, and her heart pounded beneath his  
hand with an elation he knew well, for it lived in his own breast as well.

Dimly he realised that he was kneading her, claws clenching and relaxing at  
her belly and breasts in a rhythmic paroxysm of pleasure. Would he leave  
marks on her skin? The thought did not disturb him nearly as much as it  
should; she was so sweetly yielding in his arms that he could not even  
imagine her turning from him now. Indeed, she covered his hands with her  
own, holding him captive as she enjoyed the pin-prick sensation. And still  
their lips danced to music only they could hear.

Before long - or had it been hours? - she had coaxed his right hand beneath  
her jumper, where he lightly, helplessly scored her soft belly flesh; a foe  
would have been done for at this juncture, but she was his love, and he  
touched her with a lover's caress. Yes, there would be marks - it was  
unavoidable - but they would not last long, and he shivered to think of her  
at her bath later, tracing his mischief with her fingertips and remembering  
the pins-and-needles ardour that had gripped him in her arms. How he longed  
to be with her always!

The thought seemed to penetrate his most primal senses. With his left hand,  
he cupped her cheek and eased her away, just enough so that he could look  
into her eyes and see the unswerving love there. Her delicious mouth, so  
swollen and damp from his kisses, made him think of Housman's rose-lipt  
maidens; and if his Catherine was a rose, then he possessed more than enough  
thorns to protect her from harm. Rose and thorn had intermingled since the  
time of Bacchus; so Catherine and Vincent were meant to be. He had never  
felt more certain of anything.

Thus he let his yearning mouth drop to the hollow of her neck, where he  
branded her with his teeth. Four small punctures; his mark on her, for  
always. As her blood filled his mouth like fire, the unique kiss sang hotly  
through their veins...and they embraced their dream of roses.


End file.
